


gods require sacrifice

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the shrine smells like his mamá’s bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gods require sacrifice

Sometimes the shrine smells like his mamá’s bedroom; the candles burning remind him of his mamá’s altar, the musical whispering of women praying—he closes his eyes for a moment and he’s home, his mamá is alive, and he can feel the sun ripple across his skin, smell it in the air coming through the open window.

Rafa traces her visage etched on a candle when the shrine is quiet, wondering if the artist knew about the fangs in her mouth, the scales lurking under her skin, if they knew about the curse or the gift or whatever this second life he was given is—if all the worshippers know, if that’s what they seek when they come here to pray on their knees for her, leaving tribute.

 

 

(He’d been young and idealistic, passionate and bull-headed—maybe it was arrogance, too much pride after his mamá had given him the gift of education, putting him into university, after prep school but all he felt was a burning in his veins to do something about the angry pit in his stomach. _Justicia_ , his mamá called it, kissing his hair, looking at him with worry fraying around her eyes, giving her wrinkles, white in her dark hair.

The bullet had been hot when it pierced through his torso, traveling through him, tearing up his insides, shot strong enough to shatter bone, crumpling his knees upon impact, left bleeding out on the grass—all for the cause, all for the protest that had been in his marrow since the day he was born ( _no_ was the first thing you ever said to me, his mamá tells him, with a smile, over and over, replaying in his mind). Josefina found him just before they had dragged him into the truck and he’d become another nameless body, another disappearance years later they’ll finally count among the killed–she had torn their throats open with her teeth, turning to Rafa with the glowing yellow eyes of his savior, those same teeth remaking him with a bite to the shoulder.

Rafa gone home against Josefina’s warning– _you’re dead to them now, you’re dead_ –and he almost turned back when he could hear his mamá’s heartbeat through the walls, thumping in a steady rhythm, filling his ears as his teeth grew sharp, skin rippling, hunger overriding his love. But she caught him in the window, their eyes locked through the glass— _Gloria a la diosa, gloria a Kisa, gracias a Kisa, para la protección de ti, la diosa te salvó_ , she whispered in his ear, warm, human arms wrapped around him, her cheek rubbing against his scales and he kept his jaw locked, kept her safe from himself–eating a traveling couple when she sent him on his way into the night.

His mamá never forgot him, requesting an evening service, in her will, sun low in the sky, casting enough shadows for Rafa to stick to, keep to the back, keep hidden and lingering after the mourners had gone to pay his respects and kiss her waxy, death-chilled cheek. Kisa kept watch over her with her golden, slitted eyes, the ones she gave to Rafa; it’s been eight years since her death and sometimes Rafa still calls her, forgetting—she’d been eighty, long life, happy; eventually all the people who knew him will be dead.)

 

 

Rafa hears whispers sometimes, listening to the cartel men outside, of a woman on the edge of the border, a dancer in the night, Santánico Pandemonium. _Don’t go chasing myths, mi hermano_ , Josefina laughs when she comes in, months since her last visit, another grainy picture in the newspaper of her at another rally, a protest, visiting him to pry him away from his vigil, his service to la diosa.

_I hear culebras go in there and they never come out._

He hears Kate Fuller whisper the name—not Kisa, _Santánico Pandemonium_ —when he takes her into the shrine, months later, and a shudder goes through him, cold, like a chill, tasting the bitterness of her tone on his tongue. _Help me_ , Kate says, and Rafa hears _justicia_ , and sees himself reflected back in her eyes—young and angry and what a dangerous proposition that makes, remembering when he used to help people, when he fought and almost died. 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://richiesseth.tumblr.com)!


End file.
